Sinners
by ciararose
Summary: 3 years have passed since Graduation, and the war continues. The line between good and evil has become blurred. In a battle that has changed everyone, can there be a beautiful side to evil? Can love exist, tainted and dark, for the Sinners?
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One - Don't Trust a Killer

**Hogwarts School Closed, Declared Prohibited Area by Ministry**

**Yesterday, at a news conference held by the Minister of Magic, it was announced that Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the school renowned for teaching some of the greatest Wizarding names, the school that has provided the primary means of education to British witches and wizards for centuries, and a familiar landmark to almost every witch and wizard in the world, is now closed. The reason for this closure was not revealed, however, the Minister declared the entire area a Prohibited Zone for any civilian and advised the public that approaching the school would be extremely dangerous. Rumors as to the reasoning behind the closure range, and it is not clear whether the danger is under Ministry control or not.**

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**

The mark on her arm burning impatiently, jet black against ivory skin, she hurried up the corridor toward the meeting room. She rubbed at it in discomfort; she was used to the sensation, but it didn't make it any more enjoyable, and it tended to tingle for hours after the summons. It was always hard to ignore, although she tried sometimes, playing a dangerous game that never lasted for more than a minute or two. He always lasted longer than she did- but then again, he had had the mark longer too.

She reached the heavy doors and nodded to the masked figures standing on either side of it. They glanced at her arm before pulling the doors aside- as though anyone without the mark would be here.

She hated having to see Him in person. Each time he called her, chills came with the summons. He was evil, dark, a picture you longed to turn away from, but so terrible that you could not stop looking. He sat in the front of the hall, and her memories of the place contrasted distressingly with the shadows that adorned it now, with the gleam of red eyes in torchlight, and the icy cold of pale hands resting against dark wood. Each time she walked up the center of the room, footsteps sounding against the stone, she could feel the thrill of youth, and taste each word she had ever spoken within these walls. And then she would bow, and He would speak, his voice destructive and hypnotic, and each train of thought would shatter with a crash against the floor.

* * *

**Hogwarts School Overtaken by Death Eaters**

**The closing of Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry caused dismay and outrage among the Wizarding community two weeks ago, as parents of young witches and wizards were forced to find alternative schooling for their children. Until now, the reasons for the closure remained unclear. The Daily Prophet, however, has received exclusive information from a source inside the Ministry that, if true, is truly and deeply alarming. The source, who wishes to remain unnamed, has revealed that Hogwarts School has been commandeered by the Dark Lord and is even now serving as a Headquarters for his followers. How this turn of events was allowed to occur is surely a mystery, but if true, this news is certain to cause panic throughout the Wizarding community, as it is an undeniable indication of the growing strength of You-Know-Who and his followers.**

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**

The castle was an ideal strategic location, and had the added benefit of some dark sentimental value to the Dark Lord. It was large, strong, and nearly impossible to enter against the will of anyone inside.

But she hated being back here. She hated how she always turned toward the common room before remembering that she no longer lived there, sometimes not until she had reached the entrance. She hated that the room she occupied had once watched her learn Transfiguration, and that the teacher was long dead now. She hated that screams echoed against the corridors, and that shadows crossed so easily when the torchlight was faint, and that every place she went seemed to hold some memory for her, of when she had been there before, young and vibrant and not aware that she could never get out. The place she had been sorted was now the place she met the Dark Lord each time he called her to receive her instructions. The first place she had ever watched a Hogwarts Quidditch game was now the place she had first learned to kill. The first place she had ever been kissed by a boy was now the first place she had suffered a Crucio at the Dark Lord's hand.

She didn't do well in the past.

Ministry Suffers in Polls, Public Outcry Growing in Volume

The Ministry of Magic is the victim of increasingly common attacks on wartime policy. A frightened and desperate public has turned upon its government seeking assurances and protection. The Ministry of Magic insists that it is taking every possible action to combat the violence and destruction wreaked by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and that the Ministry is not to blame for its failures. Members of the public, however, who are used to relying on help from their elected officials in these troubled times, are becoming more vocal in their disapproval and impatience. Yesterday marked the death of the two-hundredth wizard to loose his life at the hands of a Death Eater or as a direct cause of the war. This figure does not account for the almost five hundred Muggles who have died.

She let herself into her room with a key, and went to the closet to remove her coat. She slipped off her shoes and shook hair from her eyes, then turned toward the window. She wasn't surprised to see an old classmate seated on the bed with a book.

You weren't due back until later, she said, stepping in to the closet to change into robes. She emerged in simple black ones and walked toward the bed, watching her guest sit up against the pillows. She put a pillow against the wall next to him and sat down, leaning on it and tangling her legs perpendicular to his own, her heartbeat, as always, responsive to his lightest touch. She couldn't remember when first he had tempted her, knew only that he owned her pulse.

It wasn't as difficult to get in as we thought it might be, he replied, quietly. No wards.

The dim, grey light coming from the window seemed to call for quiet, for monotone and simplicity. Pansy could feel fatigue radiating from him, both magical and physical. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. It was a dark sort of day, grey with fog and uncertain and quietly threatening. Pansy, who had not been on assignment that day, felt fatigue creeping into her too, like fog running through her veins.

Who was it? she asked, and he opened his eyes to gaze at a far wall.

No matter how cruel, how hardened they became, Avada Kedavra never became any easier than the first time. And the first time had been a taste of death- dazzling, almost beautiful, persuasive and coaxing in the darkest way.

* * *

**Murder in Diagon Alley**

**In an alarmingly bold move on Tuesday, three Death Eaters were seen, masked and hooded, leaving the Wicked Wands pub in Diagon Alley at approximately three in the afternoon, and promptly Disapparating. Frightened and concerned, neighbors alerted the Ministry before entering the building, only to find the bartender, a Timothy Neeling, dead on the floor, along with two patrons whose names have no been released. The obvious and reckless manner in which this crime was committed suggests that the Death Eaters, supporters of You-Know-Who, are no longer adverse to operating in public and in broad daylight, an idea that has prompted several nearby homeowners to pack their bags for the country. The targeting of Mr. Neeling does not appear random, but no connections between his life and his murder have yet been found.**

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"Was he alone?"

"No. Abbot and a kid where there, too," he told her, and she could see him watching the scene play out against the stones of the wall. Unlocking the door. Entering quietly, coming in to the kitchen, maybe. Macmillan would have yelled, Hannah would have whimpered. She could almost hear his voice, demanding allegiance and knowledge. The standard speech, which was rarely effective. Macmillan would have been dramatic as always. The flash of green light when the words were spoken, a scream from Abbot. A second flash, and then get rid of the witness.

It was always the same. Only a few ever cooperated, usually the ones who weren't particularly useful anyway. They were the cowardly ones. Their betrayal didn't save them.

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_

_"We of the Ministry deeply regret the necessity for this news conference. But it is our duty to inform the public of the ultimate triumph of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. We hope the people of this good nation will forgive us our mistakes, so that we may all bind together in this time of dire need. The Ministry of Magic is no longer the most powerful force in this country, and at this time, we feel that although the best possible efforts to prevent this situation have been taken, there is simply nothing we can do but wait. We of the Ministry urge you to take every possible precaution against the danger that lurks outside your homes. Do not speak to, or contact in any way, any person that you feel may be under the influence or employment of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. If you do make contact with such a person, take every possible measure not to provoke them. Although we know that our people are brave and will fight for their freedoms, the truth is undeniable. The war, for now, is over. We have lost."_

* * *

He folded his hands across his stomach. Pansy stayed where she was, looking out the window across from her seat. After a few minutes, she glanced at Draco, noting the even rise and fall of his breathing. He was asleep, but she knew any sound would wake him, as it always did. They were both light sleepers, companions of the night, where darkness greeted them with familiarity. Pansy had never liked the sunlight anyway.

She moved sideways until she lay parallel to him and rested her head on a pillow. The soft rustling of her motion woke him and he slid one arm aside, tiredly pulling her closer and gripping her waist. She heard his breathing slow, then become steady, and eventually, she fell asleep herself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two - She Was Born to Be The One That We Could Blame **

She gasped and woke, and the room was dark. The bed beside her was empty.

After a moment, her eyes focused and she could see by the moonlight streaming from the window. The torches were not lit. She saw the bright cream of her new robes hanging in her closet, and her skin against the dark bed covers. Draco's pale skin and hair glowed gently as he turned in his seat by the window to face her. He looked like a ghost, white and shining against the rest of the shadows in the room.

"Bad dream?" he asked flatly. Keen ears had picked up the sound of her sharp breath.

"No. Just flashes," she said.

He nodded and turned back to the window. She watched carefully to be sure he wasnt looking, then lifted her pale wrists from her lap. Dark crescents bit sharply where her fingernails had dug in to the skin on her arm. She rarely moved in her sleep, and never had she injured herself. The marks shook her; they were new and unusual and a bad sign.

"Are you hungry?" she asked him, and he turned around and stood up.

"Yes. We should eat. Do you want to go somewhere? I don't know how late it is," she asked him, looking around for the clock but unable to see the numbers clearly in the dark.

"It's ten o'clock," he told her. "We may as well eat something from the kitchens. Do you want to go down? I could bring you something," he offered, gazing at her steadily. It was a look she loved, the steady and burning stare that alone seemed capable of setting her skin scorching. She shook her head.

"No, I'll come. Light your wand, though. I don't know if the torches will be lit."

The left the room, closing the door softly behind them. As Pansy had predicted, the torches were unlit, and the followed the light of Draco's wand as she lit them behind her. They passed a few Death Eaters on their way to the kitchens, but many were out on assignment, and those who had recently returned were mostly resting and healing various injuries. Theodore Nott gave them a nod as he strode off in the opposite direction, black cloak billowing sinisterly behind him. They reached a painting that showed only fruit, tickled the pear, and entered the kitchens.

The house-elves were bound by enchantment to serve the castle regardless of master, to ensure they would not need re-employment each time a new Headmaster was appointed. They now looked ill and ragged, a far cry from their neat and efficient pasts, but they still served the occupants of the castle in much the same manner as always. They bowed respectfully as Draco and Pansy made their way toward the center of the kitchens.

What can we be getting for you, Mr. and Miss? they asked, and Draco requested dinner for them both. They sat down at a table in a corner of the kitchen and ate their food in contemplation, and Pansy could tell after only a few moments that something strange was happening to Draco. His face was impassible, as it almost always was, but his eyes were troubled and downcast, and he stared determinedly at the table, avoiding her eyes.

"What's the matter"? she asked concernedly. She let him know with her steady gaze that she expected an honest answer, rather than reassurance. He would never lie to her, but she knew it was hard for him to share any discomfort.

"He's calling again. He does'nt usually summon me this often," he replied, and Pansy glanced at the mark burned upon his arm. It glared jet black against white skin.

"Why didn't you go? You'll be in trouble if you don't hurry," she told him urgently, standing up and taking his arm to inspect it more thoroughly. Draco didnt answer, but she knew he was just being stubborn. His pride barely allowed him to serve others, but necessity bent his will.

"I'll go now. Don't wait for me," he told her, but she knew she would anyway. Their hybrid relationship meant that she knew she would wait up for him no matter how late the hour, afraid of losing best friend, lover, confidant, and partner in the Dark Lords clutches.

Pansy woke with a start, turning over in luxurious sheets. She knew immediately that she was not in her own room, but it took only seconds for her to orient herself and realize she had fallen asleep in Draco's room, waiting for him to return from his audience with the Dark Lord. The old Charms room was lit only with a dying candle, and Pansy glanced around to see what had woken her. With the way they now slept, it could have been anything from a noise outside to the sputter of the candle as it burnt away. With a few seconds careful listening, however, Pansy determined the source of her abrupt return to consciousness. Footsteps were echoing outside the room, and from the pace and distance of them, Pansy knew it was Draco returning.

He opened the door almost silently, his face expectant and then smooth again when he saw her. Pansy was immediately alert, waiting to hear the latest assignment that, from the looks of it, was not at all to his taste. He closed the door behind him and sank in to a comfortable chair nearest the door, and Pansy rose from the bed with a barely audible rustle.

"Anything interesting?" she asked, pacing to his side and seating herself on the arm of the chair. She wondered why the Dark Lord would have called him so soon after his return. Draco had said his mission had gone well, and there was no feasible reason for the Dark Lord to have inflicted his wrath upon his servant.

"Just more captures," he told her, raising his eyes to meet her own. Whatever the situation, no matter how serious, his profound look always electrified her, and sent a bolt of lightening shooting straight into her heart. He never looked through her, but always directly in to her in some strange, delightful way that strummed a little against her spine.

"You just got back," she whispered, her forehead creased in confusion and disappointment.

"He's planning something big, I think. Another battle maybe."

He was conflicted on the issue, she could tell. He was always composed, always stiff, and churning only on the inside, but she read his frustration in the slight curve of his lips. A new battle meant easier tasks if they won; less resistance. But it also meant weeks of preparation, of operating in midnight secrecy and danger. She gave him a moment to think, them prodded gently.

"He has new plans?" she asked, trying to hide her own anxiety.

He shrugged, still deep in thought. "He wants to end a few things. The Ministry has been resisting; they have a few new departments. They're causing trouble."

He stood up abruptly, and strode across the floor with soft footfalls. He went to the bed and sat wearily against the cushions, glancing once at Pansy. She knew the tiny glance was a request for her presence, and she followed his steps to the bed and sat beside him, facing him.

"The Greengrass family have been giving generously to the Ministry."

Pansy frowned, surprised. Daphne Greengrass had been in her year in Slytherin, a friend of hers. She couldn't understand their sudden loyalty to the Ministry.

"He thinks they may be trying to set up an understanding. They're looking for power."

Pansy nodded her understanding. The Greengrass family had been a wealthy PureBlood family from the time she knew Daphne They had parted after graduation, and Pansy hadn't heard of Daphne since her name was mentioned by the Dark Lord. It made sense that the family was using their gold for themselves; it was a tradition of wealthy Purebloods. It seemed this particular family had cast their lot with the wrong side.

"I think we're going after them," Draco told her. "He didn't say, but from the sound of it, we're looking for one of the old families."

"Their choice," she said wearily, rubbing her forehead in anticipation of a throbbing she felt gathering in her temple. The Greengrass family had chosen wrong. Pansy was more concerned with the suggested battle- she had had mixed results with the few that had taken place in the past years.

Draco breathed deeply, his mouth relaxing. Whatever his opinion, he had made his choice. He would never admit his weakness, but when he pulled her slightly closer and adjusted his grip on her waist, she knew he needed her more than he liked to tell himself. She let her head rest in the nook created by his arm, and she heard his breathing calm.

"Go to sleep," she instructed. "You need it. We both do."

He was silent for a few minutes, and she was sure he had fallen asleep, but he spoke again suddenly.

"I don't know when I am going to leave," he told her quietly.

She knew this meant he would be gone when she woke up in the morning. She raised her head and put her hands on either side of his face, moving aside strands of shining silver blonde hair from his forehead. His eyes were open and glowing grey and blue in the dark, where the candle had finally blown itself out. She would never let herself cry.

She brushed her lips once against his cool ones, and felt the faintest tug on her own. He wanted her to ask him to stay, but she never could, not if it meant inviting violence from the Dark Lord.

"What can I do?" she asked softly. There was no way for her to ease his anxiety when she shared it, no way to make him forget all of the times they had been fearful or hurt, no way for her to take away anything that had ever made his burdens heavy, but she would try.

"Don't get lost, "he replied, and without warning she wanted to cry, to scream and choke and feel the hot tears course their way down her cheeks. But she never could. She knew he asked only that she stay alive and well and, when it was over, find him again, and she knew that he would never say so.

"I'll be careful."

She would be secretive and silent and do her job, and all the while know that he could do the same and still she would fear for him and for herself, should she ever lose him. And she would know that she could never say so.

_Please don't_, she pleaded in her mind. Don't go.

"Stay safe," she told him. "Come back."


End file.
